2016-12-03

What makes opera such a powerful element in many films? In this short video essay provided by the English National Opera, Lewis Bond suggests that where film often reflects our experience, opera refracts it. The result injects an element of raw but universal feeling into the story.

2016-05-21

In Taiwan the expression Táiwān jiāyóu! (臺灣加油) is analogous to Vive le France! in another country. It is a rousing cheer, an exhortation to dig deep and step up, and a summons to victory.

Newly elected Tsai Ing-Wen (蔡英文) first greeted the Twitterverse with 'Taiwan jiayou!' And it's a cheer that regularly greets Taiwan's athletes when they enter the arena of world competition.

The word jiayou is probably best left untranslated. It gathers all the meanings we convey in English exhortations like 'onward', 'forward', 'go', 'good luck', 'fight', 'win', 'hail', 'long live', and 'forever'. Jiaoyou is viva and vive and a bit of über alles. It does all this work for individuals and teams as well as countries. And, like 'rah', it's an easy word to get your voice behind.

We've been hearing this greeting often in the past week as this country marks another peaceful transfer of power in celebration of its first twenty years of democracy.

2016-05-20

Once again, the people of Taiwan have shown the world through our actions that we, as a free and democratic people, are committed to the defense of our freedom and democracy as a way of life. Each and every one of us participated in this journey. My dear fellow Taiwanese, we did it.

I would like to tell you that, regarding the results of the January 16th elections, I have always had one interpretation only. The people elected a new president and new government with one single expectation: solving problems.

[....] I would also like to tell you that the multitude of challenges before us require that we face them honestly and shoulder the responsibilities together. Therefore, this speech is an invitation. I invite every fellow citizen to carry the future of this country.

2016-04-15

A series at NewMusicBox is exploring the ways artists address the tensions of art and commerce in their personal lives. It's a fascinating and candid discussion and I encourage art lovers to check it out.

One paragraph in an article by Bonnie Jones caught my eye. In it, the acclaimed composer pauses in sharing her personal reflections to pose a set of questions.

So why then, does it still seem novel when artists talk transparently about the money they make from art or other jobs? I wonder if talking about the very unsexy ways we make a living threatens some myth of the serious artist? The serious artist doesn’t sell out. The serious artist only cares about the art and everything else is false. The serious artist never compromises their authenticity for money. The serious artist never considers themselves part of the nasty capitalist game where many fight for what few resources are available. The serious artist’s success is based on a meritocracy. Who can actually live like this? Where did this myth come from? Did capitalism create the myth and ultimately make fools of us all?

These questions do loom large in artists' lives. And history shows that these questions have answers. Time has set art upon a journey that as artists we necessarily join in mid-course. Taking account of the route art taken so far can help us get our bearings and, if necessary, make course corrections.

The admonition against 'selling out' was the brainchild not of 'capitalism' but of artists determined to resist its pressures. It's a signature of the bohemian movement—a cultural beat that still goes on after a century and a half.

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The ideal of the bohemian is to stay true to one's vision, even if doing so obliges the artist to live in poverty (or do some disreputable moonlighting).

The unthinkable alternative: to compromise one's creativity in the manner of the shopkeeper who tailors each creation to the customer. That approach, says the bohemian, marks the bourgeois—the person wedded to convention who values superficial respectability and material comfort over a life of passion, originality and vision.

The bourgeois stands utterly against the creative life, says the bohemian. Creativity requires authenticity. One must be as one is, do as one does, mean what one expresses. The only crime in Bohemia is pretending to be something you're not.

No one can deny the contributions of the movement to the world of art and the world at large. Still, no philosophy is beyond a second guess. If we now must apprehend for questioning the perpetrators of the 'myth' that treats with indifference artists' need to pay the rent, we will find the usual suspects sitting at their usual table in the Café Bohème.

Do we now suspect that the shopkeepers had something to offer the discussion after all? Is it easier today to imagine no hell below us for those artists whose paintings match the sofa? If so, it makes sense to explore our suspicions.

But it doesn't do to blame the bourgeois for the inconvenient ideals of the bohemian. When those ideals were born the bourgeois was just standing nearby, minding the shop.

2016-02-15

Free societies will be more richly served the day they see the value of performing arts organisations as akin to the value of great libraries and museums. All these things are resources in advancing culture, and in opening the achievements of culture to all.

Open societies get off on the wrong foot when they think of the performing arts by thinking of them not as resources for sharing culture, but as niche forms of commercial entertainment, best left to make their way according to the rules of the marketplace as commercial products must.

The flaw in this habit of thought appears at once when we turn the subject from the arts of music and dance to the arts of literature and painting. Everyone understands the need for libraries and museums. Most people understand that the experience of commercial best sellers and cute posters cannot substitute for the experience of Woolf's books or Wyeth's paintings. They understand instinctively that it would be a profoundly unhealthy thing for society overall if all the works of Woolf and Wyeth were to be sequestered away in private collections, accessible only to those wealthy enough to buy everything or to those influential enough to get invitations to the owner's mansion for a glimpse.

Yet on the subject of the performing arts, that is what many people advocate. 'Let those who want symphonies pay for them themselves,' they say. What this means, in effect: 'Put the experience of live symphonies away in a place where I and my neighbours will never find it.' Worthy achievements of Beethoven and Copland are pushed aside as worthy achievements of Woolf and Hemingway are not, for no apparent reason other than the artistic medium.

And the reality is that most people who want symphonies can not pay for access to them entirely on their own. This should not surprise us, as most people who want access to the complete works of Hemingway cannot afford to stock everything in their own personal libraries, either. Access to all: that's why communities build concert halls and theatres, libraries and galleries.

Inequality may linger in the world of material things, but great music, great literature, great art and the wonders of science are, and should be, open to all.

2016-01-31

2016-01-16

Tonight I’m remembering a moment from my first year in Taiwan. It’s winter 2005. I am riding in a bus with colleagues from my university. The news program on TV shows a press conference with Condaleeza Rice.

The professor in the next seat turns to face me. ‘Men in your country don’t really listen to her, do they?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Men in your country don’t listen to that woman on TV, do they?’

‘She’s Secretary of State. Why wouldn’t they?’

‘I know, but she’s a woman. Men in your government... they don’t really take a woman seriously as their boss?’

I’m startled, but the answer is immediate. ‘They do if they don’t want to get fired.’

My colleague’s expression turns grim. He sits back. The rest of the ride is quiet.

Tonight I am thinking of that conversation. I wonder where that man is now, what he makes of today’s events in his own country.
The times are a-changing . . . ah, but aren’t they always.

Congratulations to my Taiwanese neighbours of all political loyalties. You’ve again achieved the kind of peaceful transfer of power that for many people in the world remains a distant dream.

Congratulations, Dr Tsai Ing-Wen, president-elect of Taiwan. You won the confidence of millions and, in the process, realized a dream of your own.

And to all the young women I’ve seen brandishing banners in recent weeks for your Mingkuotang and your New Power and your People First and your Democratic Progressives and your Nationalists and your Taiwan Solidarity . . . congratulations to you, too.

Today is the day of the Freshman English Speech Contest on a college
campus in Hualien, Taiwan.

I
enter a classroom with a window at the back and a cleared area at the front.
Students have wedged themselves into every available space, talking in Mandarin
and in Taiwanese, jostling and laughing. Calligraphy on a red banner draped at
the front of the room proclaims the occasion.

One student prepares to manage the stopwatch, another to send signals, another to announce, another to calculate scores. I am guided to
the adjudicators’ section, to the middle seat of three. I recognise the judges on either side, both
Taiwanese, as colleagues. A student gives each of us a cup
of tea, pens and a sheaf of blank score sheets.

The
club’s president, a compact young woman wearing glasses, steps to the front
with a no-nonsense air. The conversations cease. She explains, in Mandarin, the
purposes of the club. She introduces the judges and explains the rules.

Speakers
have a time limit. They get one signal when a minute remains and another when
time is up. All contest material comes from a source chosen by the club. Today’s
source is an anthology: Selected Works in English Prose for Oral Presentation.

The president steps away. The announcer reads out a name. The judge to
my right leans toward me. ‘This is our first contestant,’ he says. ‘Her English name
is Sandy.’

A
young woman steps to the front. She is tall, long-limbed and broad-shouldered.
She turns to face us and waits, her posture straight but relaxed. Her
mouth turns up at the corners in a suggestion of mischief.

She
wears a plain shirt and black slacks with Nike shoes. A phone is clipped
at her hip. One wrist is adorned with a jade bracelet and a small pendant at
her neck bears the figure of Guanyin. A large medallion, made of multi-coloured
construction paper and draped around her neck, displays the numeral 1.

I
recognise this student from conversation practice sessions. Sandy is captain of an intramural basketball team. She
has three younger brothers who play basketball. The family has a beagle puppy named Obama.

The
timekeeper gives the signal. Sandy
leans toward us slightly, as if preparing to tell a secret.

‘I say
to you today, my friends...’

The voice is intimate, engaging, almost conspiratorial.

‘...even
though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream.’

Her eyes meet ours.

‘It is
a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

‘I
have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true
meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all
men are created equal.’

The
island of Taiwan is a mountain range thrust up from the ocean by the collision
of two huge crustal plates. Its peaks are the highest in Asia east of the
Himalayas and some of the fastest rising mountains in the world. The loftiest
peak is Yü Shan, Jade Mountain—a wedge of metamorphic rock that cuts into the sky nearly
4,000 metres above sea level. Taiwan’s aboriginal peoples have regarded Yü Shan
as sacred ever since their ancestors first sighted it over 6,000 years ago.

Yü Shan can’t be seen from our campus but Sandy can see, through the window
behind us, the peaks of Taiwan’s Coastal Mountain Range framing a glimpse of the
Pacific Ocean beyond. Today the waters shine under drifting puffs of white
cloud. Palm trees and stone ridges gleam and gloom on the
mountainsides.

‘I
have a dream that one day, on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former
slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at
the table of brotherhood.’

She takes
care pronouncing the consonants. Slaves. Slave owners.

Sandy’s
mother tongue is Taiwanese. It’s the common language in her home. She began speaking Mandarin in pre-school and
English at age six. In high school she began studying Japanese. She first grew curious about the
language as a child when she heard her grandparents speak it. Japan had ruled the island when they were children.

When her family watches television, Sandy sits in the center. She translates Japanese dialogue in samurai movies for her parents, Mandarin
phrases in talk shows for her grandparents, and English slang in Hollywood
movies for everybody. Sandy hopes one day to work as a translator in an
international organisation such as the WHO or the UN.

‘I
have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi’—she dances crisply
across the syllables—‘a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering
with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and
justice.’

Taiwan
is not a member of the UN. China does not allow it because it claims the island
as its own territory. The claim, though spurious under international law, keeps
many doors of official recognition closed. China’s government passed a new law
several years ago authorising ‘non-peaceful actions’ should Taiwan ever move to
make its self-governing status official. Over 2,000 Chinese missiles, packing
nuclear warheads, are aimed at Sandy’s island she speaks.

‘I
have a dream,’ she says, ‘that my four little children will one day live in a
nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin, but by the
content of their character.’

Sandy
learned a few years ago of an uncle she had not known she had. He disappeared
during the White Terror when Taiwan was under one-party Kuomintang rule. Her
parents never conducted a search, never called the police, never held a funeral
or openly grieved. They never dared. The family simply stopped talking about him. Pictures of her uncle were hidden away with all of his belongings. Sandy and her brothers, born
later, were never told he had existed.

After Taiwan became a democracy, events like this in its history began to be openly
discussed. Sandy knows now about her uncle. She and her brothers light incense
for him every Ancestors Day. She knows now that he was a literature major at a
university, that he won trophies in sports and public speaking.

‘I
have a dream today. I have a dream that one day in Alabama, little black
boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and
white girls as sisters and brothers.’

Sandy’s
class includes international students, including a student from China.
She doesn’t know the Chinese student well. She has remarked, though, that he seems to watch a lot of television. Every time she sees him he is asking classmates
about Taiwan’s television shows.

‘I
have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valley shall be
exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be
made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight. The glory of the Lord
shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.’

Sandy
recently got her driver’s license. She plans to buy a scooter. Soon she will
also register to vote.

She can remember Taiwan’s first elections. She was a small child. Buses were packed with Taiwanese people who had returned to from overseas to vote. China launched
missiles overhead. America sent an aircraft carrier. Taiwan voted. Since then
she has seen three presidents elected. She has seen women elected to
national and local office. A woman is running for president now.

‘With
this faith,’ she says, ‘we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a
stone of hope.’

Sandy
plays Mah Jongg, Uno and Super Mario. She likes night markets better than
shopping malls. She says she spends too much time on Facebook. Her favourite beverage is sweetened green tea with kumquats. Her favourite food during a typhoon holiday is instant noodles.

‘This will
be the day when all of God’s children will sing with new meaning: My country, ‘tis
of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died,
land of the pilgrim’s pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring.’

Sandy
recently started a blog. Posts discuss athletic events and outdoor hikes. Photos show friends, family members, and a beagle puppy exploring mountain trails and riverbanks.

‘If
America is to be a great nation this must become true.’

She
sees the signal. She draws a deep breath.

‘So
let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom
ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the
heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania. Let freedom ring from the snow-capped
Rockies of Colorado. Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

‘But not only that.’

Her
eyes go to the window, then, sparkling, sweep the room.

‘Let
freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia. Let freedom ring from Lookout
Mountain of Tennessee. Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of
Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.’

She makes no grand flourish. She confides, in words now hers.

‘When
we allow freedom to ring,’ Sandy says, ‘when we let it ring from every village
and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will speed that day when
all of God’s children will be able to join hands, and sing in the words of the
old Negro spiritual: Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we are
free at last.’

2016-01-02

Alton Thompson

Alton is a conductor, artist, and author who makes his home in Taiwan. His alma maters are the Florida State University, the University of Memphis, and the Peabody Conservatory at Johns Hopkins. A native of Florida USA with ancestry in France and Scotland, he has been making music on The Beautiful Isle since 2004.